


Better Love

by lyannas (crossfirehurricane)



Series: Drabbles [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Lyanna Is Alive, Alternative Universe - Arthur Is Alive, F/M, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Pre-Canon, Regret, Second Chances, Starting Over, extremely minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/lyannas
Summary: A series of Arthur/Lyanna drabbles and one-shots I've written purely for enjoyment, and for inspiration for an upcoming fic.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> All of these fics were originally written at my tumblr @lyannas. This is a fairly niche pairing, I know, but I love it because let's be real, #LyannaDeservesBetter.

These were moments Rhaegar would never get to know.

Standing on the shore somewhere on the coast of Essos, the sea breeze trailing its gentle fingers on his face– Getting rid of his ceremonial armor unceremoniously by sinking it into that very sea– Holding Rhaegar’s son in his arms, the boy small and warm and still so innocent– Lyanna’s sobs at night as she prayed for a way back home–

These were moments that belonged to Arthur, now. He did not ask for them, he often did not want them, but there was no one else to take them. No one but him, for he was all that remained of the Tower of Joy.

Just Arthur, and Lyanna, and the unnamed prince.

The prince is named eventually, when Lyanna throws her dreams of home to the warm wind and decides upon _Brandon. “_ I may never return home,” she told Arthur. “But if my son is to be my home now, then I want him named something known to me. I want to name him after a home I know I shall never see again.”

There are sweet moments, moments that Arthur did not deserve. There was the soft touch of Lyanna’s hand on his arm, pulling him toward a cart of grapefruit– The sweetest wine he had ever tasted upon his lips– The feel of sand between his toes and water breaking over his feet– The prince’s first word, “mama”, said as he looked toward Lyanna; the word “papa” comes second, said as he looked toward Arthur. Neither had the heart, or desire, to correct him.

There are moments unkind, moments Arthur was sure he deserved. Taking up the sellsword’s call in order to support his charges felt like he was crushing his dignity underfoot– Being tossed about on a boat that took them from one city to the next, desperate to avoid Robert Baratheon’s gaze– An illness that overcame young Brandon, that sapped his strength for a fortnight before he found his health again– Lyanna’s sad, cold eyes fixed on him, wordlessly begging mercy from this life of wandering and sorrow, searching for more reasons to go on than a child that she had never asked for.

 _These are my vows_ , my lady, he told himself, as a reminder for himself. _All my vows have done was make you suffer. I pray that changes one day._

It does change. In a moment, single moment, his vows could not find their way to his mind. It was a moment that Rhaegar knew, but a moment he could not have known the way Arthur knew it.

It was a kiss, a single kiss, shared after they had made their hands and lips sticky with the juice of blood oranges, shared well after the hour of the wolf, shared after Brandon had gone to bed.

It was a kiss, a single kiss, that ended before he could open his eyes and realize that this moment was one wholly undeserved, yet shamefully desired.

“I shall see you in the morning,” Lyanna had said afterward. Arthur, at a loss for words, nodded.

He would indeed see her in the morning, long hair loose over one shoulder as she and Rhaegar’s growing son shared a piece of bread and apricot jam on the beach. Arthur sat down beside them, and was offered a piece of bread and jam for himself, which he took from Lyanna’s hands with a thank you.

This was a moment Rhaegar would never know, and one Arthur would never wish to give to him.


	2. ii.

“I could kill a man if I wanted to.”

She says it with such confidence that Arthur’s laugh dies in his throat. Her eyes are narrowed, wild, a stormier grey than they had been before. Jests often pass between them, but it took a simple man to see that she was utterly serious.

“Taking a man’s life is no easy task, my lady,” Arthur returns gently, using the palm of his hand to lower her outstretched sword.

“Of course it is,” she fired back. “A quick slice of the throat, and anything that isn’t a god can be done for.”

“Then what will you do when that man’s blood is on your hands?”

“I will wash them clean.”

Arthur opened his mouth to contest his meaning, to explain that having a death on your conscience cannot be washed away, but he stops himself. _She is only a child,_ he told himself, though he knew it was only half true. The night before Rhaegar had made a woman of her, though whether she had truly wanted such a thing was another question. _She would not understand._ Death was beyond her little realm of swords and dreams. She liked to learn how to kill, but the act itself was heavy, not suited for a lady.

“You do not take me seriously,” Lyanna said with a grimace, and with her voice breaking. “None of you do. Am I a fool in your eyes? Am I nothing more than a plaything that speaks?” She raised her sword again, this time pressing the tip of in the hollow spot of his chest. “Have you forgotten who I am? Where I come from?”

Arthur glances around to see Oswell looking on with a puzzled expression. Rhaegar was inside, not bearing witness to the sight, though Arthur felt he above all ought to.

“No one has forgotten, Lady Lyanna.”

“Lady Lyanna _Stark_ ,” she corrected sharply, raising the sword to his throat now. The tip of it dug uncomfortably into his skin. “Lady of the North. Winterfell’s daughter. I was raised as a wolf, but it was my brother who taught me how to kill.” The sunlight gleamed off her tear-filled eyes; the sword wobbled in her hand. “I could kill you. Do not presume that I cannot.”

“I know you can, Lady Stark,” Arthur replied gently. He wrapped his hand around the middle of the sword to steady it against his flesh. “Will you?”

Her eyes widened considerably; she stared at the sword in awe, as if it just appeared before her. She licked her lips, gave an indignant sniff, and lowered her blade. “I would kill my enemies, ser,” she told him, appearing abashed as she glanced away from him. A little tear rolls off her eyelashes, but she wipes it away before it has a chance to fall upon her freckled cheeks.

“Then you must work on your grip,” Arthur said, moving forward to tap her right wrist. “You cannot have the blade shake as you strike. Hold it, firmly, naturally, as if it were an extension of your arm.”

She nodded and adjusted her grip; she raised the sword high to demonstrate her progress. “Like this?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Better.”


	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt asked for "a kiss that was never given".

He is with her as she lays dying, her ragged breaths coming less often than they should. It was difficult to imagine that this was the same Lyanna who had come here a year ago. That Lyanna had been so alive, so young, so innocent. She had been playful, stubborn, and hungry– hungry to fight, to learn, to live.

Now she was starved. Her life was slowly leaving her, slipping between her feverish fingers. He wanted to take those hands and kiss every fingertip– but that would be a selfish thing to do, and a cruel thing to take from her. Arthur could not touch her for fear of robbing her of something: her life, perhaps, or her freedom to choose.

_If I asked for a kiss, would you give it to me, I wonder?_

No– he did not deserve it, no more than Rhaegar did. Arthur pulled on his gauntlets, donned his helm, and prayed that Eddard Stark had more to give her than a useless kiss.


	4. iv.

When Arthur first met her she had fire in her eyes, in her belly, and in her blood. Lyanna was capricious, overreaching, lively, and young– too young. _Only five-and-ten_ , he had to remind himself. _Six-and-ten now_. He knew she dreamed of glory, of independence, but more often of wielding a sword. She had liked to admire Dawn when she thought he wasn’t looking. The one time he let her hold the blade he thought he might go blind from how brightly her face lit up.

He knew he should have sent her back to her family. He should have stolen her in the middle of the night, thrown her over his horse, and ridden all the way to Winterfell to return her to her father’s arms. “Forgive me, my lord,” he would have told the proud northman. “But she is not a woman meant for men to hold.”

He should have, but he did not. His heart had been as misguided as ever, embracing Rhaegar’s promises and greatness, believing that he was a good man, the very best. The talk of prophecy was not as easily accepted as the prince who chanted them, but it was the prince who mattered, and only the prince. The prince who should be king.

 _Did I exchange one mad king for another?_ He often asked himself. He did not know; Rhaegar’s madness was not like Aerys’. It was a gentle insanity, a quiet one, perhaps even a noble one, but not harmless. _She was only five-and-ten, and her eyes were full of fire._

Lyanna had shielded her eyes for a long time now. She had not looked Arthur in the face, not once since the babe took root inside her. The walls ceased being her only prison when that had happened, and her fire left her, little by little. Rhaegar did not mind. He did not want her for her fire; he wanted her for her ice.

Arthur minded, for she no longer spoke to him. She used to babble about the life she would lead as an independent woman in Dorne, regale him with her plans of taking up a sword and exploring, promise him that one day she would be a greater warrior than he, but all that had been replaced with a never-ending silence.

Rhaegar left. He heard Lyanna crying into her pillows nightly for weeks afterward. He heard her sob men’s names in her sleep _. Brandon. Ned. Ben._ None of the names were the prince’s.

Rhaegar died. Lyanna’s belly grew bigger and bigger, too big for a body so small. The midwife who delivered her babe did not ask after her age or mention her young body. Then again, she was paid not to.

The midwife did whisper four words to him, however. _A boy,_ and _childbed fever._ She prescribed nothing beyond rest. Arthur did not need to pass these words on; Lyanna remained abed for two days straight asleep, waking only when her son began to cry. She would feed him, then fall back asleep.

At the end of those two days, Gerold announced that riders were coming up the path to the tower. Seven men, and they were advancing fast.

It was a selfish thing, to chose to be beside her then, but Arthur had learned that he was more selfish than he had initially thought himself to be. He sat in the chair beside Lyanna’s bed, polishing Dawn till it gleamed. She was asleep, with Rhaegar’s son nestled at her side. Her fair skin glowed red. Her lips were as dry as cracked earth. Worry settled between her brows.

He could not help himself. He pressed a hand to her forehead, felt the fire in her blood boil and hiss until it burned him. She woke then, eyes fluttering open to look straight at him for the first time in moons. The sight of those grey eyes shrouded in darkness made his heart sink.

“Lya–”

 _“I’ve come for my sister!”_ A voice from outside called. _“Surrender her and we will see no more bloodshed!”_

She continued to look into his eyes, a blessing within itself, and she smiled a smile that was dim in comparison to the ones she had shared with him before. Yet it was a smile, and one he would not begrudge. Joy was hard to come by in this tower that kept her.

“Ned,” she whispered in a voice as thin as she was. “He came for me. I knew he would.” This smile was not for him, Arthur realized. This gaze was not, either. Her eyes were unfocused, heavy-lidded, searching for someone who would save her. That man was not Arthur.

“He did,” Arthur replied. _And now I must cross swords with him._ He pulled his hand away from her face, knowing full well he was unworthy of such sacred skin. Even as it burned her from the inside out, even as she lay dying, he had no right to touch it. He had failed her once, twice…

He had sheathed Dawn and strapped it to his back when her hand touched his. She gripped three of his fingers with more strength than he would expect from a dying woman, and gave him pause.

“You will bring him to me, won’t you?” She asked. “I long to see his face again.”

He smiled at her and squeezed her hand, returning the dainty thing to her side. “I will try my best, my lady,” he said.

She smiled again, almost in the way she used to, a smile that was just for him. Arthur captured the memory of that smile. He branded it to the inside of his eyelids and filled in every line and detail, for when his eyes closed forever, he wanted that smile to be waiting for him in the darkness.


End file.
